Hiram Dobbs sank down on the sand beside the wreck of the Ariel and tears came into his eyes. In a flash the truth dawned upon him. Vandal hands had destroyed the flying marvel upon which such hopes had been built. Dave had been tracked to the present spot and captured; perhaps hurt.
Bruce Beresford stood regarding his new friend, sharing his deep emotion. He rammed his hands into his pockets and clenched them, pacing about the spot to give Hiram time to regain his composure. Finally he walked up to him and touched him on the shoulder.
“Don’t take on so, Hiram,” he pleaded, “please don’t. It may not be the Ariel, you know——”
“Not the Ariel,” cried Hiram, springing to his feet, his tears becoming angry tears now. “Think I wouldn’t know the Ariel if I came across one spar, or rod of it in the desert of Sahara? The Ariel? Look there!”
The speaker pointed to a place in the blackened twisted mass near the pilot post. A silver plate there bore in script the name of the machine, date and maker. Blackened and abrased as it was Bruce was able to make out the inscription.
“It’s too bad,” he said sorrowfully. “Do you suppose something exploded and set it on fire?”
“No!” shouted Hiram wrathfully, now poking in among the debris. “I can smell kerosene. And there’s the cinders of a bunch of cotton waste. The Ariel was set on fire! And—Dave!”
The thought of his missing friend roused the young pilot of the Scout as no other idea could have done. Bruce was glad to see Hiram come back to his old rushing, go-ahead self. Hiram went back to the coat they had at first discovered. He inspected it more closely this time.
“See, it’s torn as if in a struggle, and the pockets are turned inside out,” he said. “Oh, if we had only received the warning from Mr. Borden sooner! Dave is gone. The same persons who expected him here, and watched for him, have taken him away.”
“But surely they would not dare to injure him,” argued Bruce.